


Habits of Loneliness

by rosy_cheekx



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martin Blackwood Feels Lonely, Prompt Fill, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), The Lonely Fear Domain (The Magnus Archives), Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:53:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28201191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosy_cheekx/pseuds/rosy_cheekx
Summary: "Tea, tea, tea. Rooibos and chamomile for sleepless nights. Herbal for variety. Jon likes caffeinated teas. Maybe some chai? That’ll be good when it gets really cold…god how long will we be here? Through winter? Forever? He could stay here forever if it meant Jon was there too."Martin can't remember the last time he drank tea. It's unsettling, the habits he picked up and habits he lost while overwhelmed by The Lonely.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 18
Kudos: 106





	1. Habits Found, Habits Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for: "Don’t do that. don’t shut me out” and / or “We can talk through the door”  
> (Actual line happens in chapter 2)
> 
> This is a little all over-the-place, but enjoy it!

_It had been hard for Martin to adjust, after the Lonely, after the months of spiraling into the quiet, cold dark, imprisoned in an ever-expanding labyrinth of his own isolation. A therapist he had years ago told him it takes three weeks to manifest a habit, and in the months without his mum, without Jon, Sasha, Tim, god without even Elias to irritate his last fraying nerve, he had time to form hundreds of new habits, his habits of loneliness._

_When Peter had given him Elias’ old office, under the guise of space, focus, and mental health (_ Martin could spit at that looking back, the cruel irony _), the room had been rearranged. The desk, which had previously sat in the center of the room, with two slightly uncomfortable chairs positioned in front of it, chairs Martin had been eager to burn in celebration of his new space, had been rearranged. The room was starkly empty, the chairs removed on his behalf, and the desk had been moved to the side of the room, out of view of the door and in fact behind the hinges, so the door swung open in front of his desk, blocking anyone who may sneak a peek in his office a view of him at work. After a while, it was natural to be in the corner of a room closest to the hinges; where the coatrack or a rubbish bin would typically be, there instead was Martin Blackwood, comfortable, solitary. Alone._

_The habits expanded outside of the office. Soon enough he was shopping at markets in the quietest hours: during the airings of football matches, at the early-morning markets, at two in the morning because he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get warm under his duvet. His warm conversations with cashiers and barkers turned to solemn nods and gruff thank-yous, the refreshing smiles they associated with the sweater-clad figure reduced to slow blinks and nods of acknowledgement, and then not even that. They didn’t even wonder what had happened to that nice auburn-haired man who worked “down the street at the old spooky building, did-you-hear-about-those-worms?” Even takeout was too much to bear. The nights where leaving his flat was unconscionable, his delivery requests would always add, “leave outside the flat, tip is under the doormat.”_

_~~His neighbors didn’t remember him after a while. Mabel, the kind woman who lived across from him, introduced herself to him, asked when he moved in. Eventually she stopped noticing this new auburn man she hadn’t seen before. Hadn’t seen at all, actually~~. No one lived across the hall from her, not in her memory. And she had an excellent memory, didn’t-you-know? It was all those crosswords. _

_Martin started locking his doors. That had been after Jon had returned. He knew that distinctly. Most of these habits loomed over his life slowly, like an ever-expanding fog, until he didn’t realize where they had begun, but the doors? That was a choice._

_He wasn’t one for locks overall; his childhood home had forbidden them, save for the exterior doors. It hadn’t bothered him back then, though, and as he grew up and out of the shadow of his mother it never occurred to him that he could just shut people out like that. So easy, so simple, but so unnecessary for so long. Martin was the one breaking down those barriers, especially at the Institute. Getting Sasha to talk about her anger when they first moved into the Archives, her quiet confession that she had wanted that job for so long, had been told by Gertrude she was a promising candidate. That had been fixed with a cup of tea and the promise that he would support her if she wanted to quit, but that it seemed like Tim needed her, Jon too. Getting Tim to open up about Danny, his sorrow that had been simmering so long under the surface, a grief Martin didn’t quite know how to fathom. But he tried, with comforting touches and warm voice, trying to ease Tim back from the precipice over which he had been hovering. Not enough. Never enough. Even Jon had begun to be kinder to him, after Prentiss, after Martin had proven he wasn’t a waste of space in the Archives, begun to be honest and open about his take on the weird things they experienced here. He had even texted him rather frequently, towards the end, updating him on his trip to America and of the occasional sights that caught his eye (‘_ In Pittsburgh they put chips on sandwiches and salads, Martin, look at this! **Image_0102 attached** ’ _Even in text, his grammar was impeccable.) But after Jon recovered from his coma, lapse with death, whatever it had been, Martin had been too far gone. He couldn’t risk Jon bursting in, bothering him, worrying and fussing. So he’d called in a locksmith to install the simple bolt, enough to stop a distracted, harried Archivist (who had never quite learned it was polite to knock) from bursting into his office at all hours._

_But after all that, after the Lonely and Peter Lukas and “look at me and tell me what you see,” it was hard to break the achingly comfortable habits. For the first few days in Scotland, Martin didn’t really remember what had happened. While out of the domain itself, he was still trapped in its cloying embrace, and everything felt too real, too looming, too much; it had been easy to slip into silence for hours in Daisy’s safehouse. Too easy to pull the fog around him and watch himself sit, drawn up behind the door, as he watched and listened and waited for Jon to forget about him. It had never happened though. No matter how many hiding places he found, cold and dark and solitary, Jon always found him, blanket and tea in tow (always a little too sweet for Martin’s liking), and his scalding embrace was enough to drag him back to reality, shivering and sweating, whispering apologies._

_-_

They needed supplies. Daisy had left behind plenty of MREs in her pantry, stuff they could theoretically rely on, but it was all very basic nutritional needs and both Martin and Jon were vegetarians, (more or less, Martin had stopped eating red meat as a teenager and Jon entirely after working in the Archives) and the dehydrated pasta alfredo was gone, seemingly the only vegetarian item in Daisy’s stock. Martin hadn’t even tried to touch the canned fruit, the orange-yellow of the peaches haunting him.

Martin suspected it was also a desperate attempt for the pair to practice feeling normal again. To be just two ~~friends? Companions? Coworkers?~~ ~~Boyfriends?~~ _people_ stocking up their fridge and going on with a normal, non-horror filled life. A secluded, bare safehouse was certainly not helping them adjust any quicker, though neither man had dared leave quite yet, be it the risk of losing what little security they had accrued here or the inability to leave the other alone quite yet.

“Is-Do you know if it’s busy today?” Martin had asked, trying desperately to shape his voice into calm curiosity.

Jon considered the question for a minute, expression soft, and dear _lord_ Martin wasn’t sure he would ever get used to the way Jon’s shadows seemed to darken and solidify when he Learned, his whole form shifting in and out of focus imperceptibly like the background was blending into _him_ and not the other way round, the way Martin was accustomed.

“Mm, not bad. No one interesting. A couple families shopping for the week, twelve customers, four employees, total-oh, fourteen, mum and son just walked in…” Martin’s eyebrow was raised. “Ah,” Jon cleared his throat. “Sorry. Fourteen people. If that’s too many, I _can_ go by myself, you know. I’m not going to force you.”

“N-no, no. I should go. Exposure therapy, right?”

Jon had smiled warmly and tentatively rested a hand on Martin’s shoulder, before sliding the hand, scarred and calloused, to squeeze Martin’s own cold one.

-

The grocery was small, a locally run place playing tinny jazz through the speakers. As Martin stepped through the doors with Jon, he was struck by how warm it was in the store. He could feel the prickle of anxiety burning under his skin, bringing a flush to his cheeks. He could hear the whine of the electric lights piercing his skull and settling behind his eyes. He gripped the trolley’s handle tight, firmly keeping his eyes forward. _He was fine, he could do this._

Martin was not fine. They had worked their way through the aisles quickly, Jon using his Knowledge to figure out where every item they needed had been located. Martin was on autopilot, quietly steering the cart and flinching when anyone came to close to him. The heat of life was radiating off everyone in the store, even Jon, and it was scalding, blinding, debilitating. He hadn’t noticed Jon asking him a question until, Jon carefully, gingerly, brought his hand to hover near Martin’s cheek, not touching, just waiting for a response.

“Martin?” he heard distantly, calling him back to reality, where fog didn’t drift over the aisles and the soft rush of waves didn’t echo in his ears.

“-mm?” The hand was gone, his skin tingled with the rush of cold returning to his face. He wished it would come back, to hold his face and promise it would be alright.

“I was wondering what tea you wanted to buy? I’m no expert and I know you have your preferences. I miss-” Jon cleared his throat. “I’ve missed your tea in the Archives. All the staff drank coffee after you left. Disgusting.”

Tea. This was something Martin could do. He took a step away from the trolley, his life raft, and studied the aisles, trying to will his mind to focus.

_Tea, tea, tea. Rooibos and chamomile for sleepless nights. Herbal for variety. Jon likes caffeinated teas. Maybe some chai? That’ll be good when it gets really cold…god how long will we be here? Through winter? Forever? He could stay here forever if it meant Jon was there too._

He grabbed a couple of boxes of familiar brands, throwing them in the trolley, as well as whatever felt familiar, what he’d usually pick up. 

“I thought you didn’t like oolong.”

Martin frowned, glancing down at the box in his hand. “I don’t. Uh, force of habit I guess.” He set the box back quickly, as if it was burning his hand. “M’mum liked it so I would pick it up for her. Guess its been a while…” he trailed off, uncertain of what he was about to say. _He’s bought tea since she died, hasn’t he?_

He thinks back, through all his months in Elias’s office and at home.

_Oh. Guess not._

_Had he really not drunk tea at all? God, he had really changed more than he thought under the influence of Peter. Tea had been such a staple of his life, his personality, he was the one dragging Jon and Sasha and Tim to teahouses for his birthday and insisting he make a cuppa for everyone on the days that felt too dark. The last time he could remember holding a warm cup of tea in his hands was when he was sitting at Jon’s bedside in the hospital, reading him Keats in the desperate hope he would hate it so much he would wake up, even if just to scold his assistant._

_Martin knew serving The Lonely had changed him. But here, in the aisle of a Scottish grocery, he was realizing how entirely debased he had become. Was he even Martin Blackwood anymore?_

Martin blinked to see the grocery around him cloaked in fog. No, that wasn’t right. He was cloaked in fog. The world was a pale blue-grayscale, slightly translucent. He hadn’t been here in a while but the cool balm over his anxiety settled like cool cloth and he felt distantly quiet. Calm. He left the store in a haze and began the slow trudge up to the safehouse. Jon wasn’t here in this place, which was probably for the best. Martin couldn’t hurt him here, couldn’t burden him with whatever pesky emotions he had felt in the grocery, whatever they had been. They were a distant memory now, oolong and guilt.

-

By the time Martin had hiked up the hill to the safehouse, he felt safe enough to leave the Lonely, and felt the cool numbness drift off him like steam as the world sharpened around him. With the world came the sharp sting of his realization came with it; the understanding that he wasn’t the same person he had been when he had said goodbye to Tim, Melanie, and Jon, and certainly not the same person he had been when he had backed through the doors to the Institute and let that dog in, what felt like decades ago now.

Martin Blackwood let the door swing shut behind him as he made his way inside, hearing the rumble of Jon’s car rolling up the gravel driveway. He moved quickly through the house, looking desperately for a place to escape as he heard the faint call of his name outside. He couldn’t-he just couldn’t talk to Jon right now; he didn’t know how to explain how betrayed he felt and by on fault but his own. The closest room was the bathroom, dark and clean, and pressed back against the door as he clicked the door shut, turning the latch on the door.

_Click._

The bolt slid into the mechanism of the door frame, and that sound was what sent Martin spiraling.

he was alone he was alone he was alone.

\----


	2. Habits New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re not too bad,” Martin had said, a ghost of a smile reminding him of the man he knew. “T-that’s probably not good for you, all things considered. But we’ve both lost our connections, haven’t we?”
> 
> “Mmm. Everyone but you, I think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have officially started and finished my first multi-chapter fic! :)  
> Prompt fill was "We can talk through the door" and/or "please don't shut me out"
> 
> find me on @balanced_to_a_tea on tumblr!

Jon didn’t know what to do. He was worried about Martin, had been for a while, after they had—for lack of a better word—evacuated to Daisy’s unoccupied safehouse. Jon knew Martin needed time, but it was still so strange to see a shell of the man he knew instead of the man he loves.

No, that’s not right. He loves this Martin too, there’s no doubt there. Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, doesn’t think he can put a modifier on that word. _Love_. “Loved” implies he doesn’t anymore, which he does. “Loves” implies present tense, which is technically true but still doesn’t sit right. It feels like it invalidates all the past versions of Martin, the ones who have waned into this one. Maybe it’s the monster in him, the eldritch being that exists out of time, that Knows and Sees everything at the same time, all the time, forever. But to say he _love_ Martin sounds silly. There must be a better word.

He knows he has love for Martin (better?) when he finds him, quaking or shivering behind a door or in the shower or frozen under the covers. In those moments all he feels is a desperate desire to make things better, to ride out the storm alongside Martin and wish away anything plaguing him. He can’t, but tea and the biggest duvet in the house is close enough. It’ll do for now.

He can feel his love for Martin when Martin reaches out for him, clinging to his hand like a lifeline. Its rare. He’s gotten less tactile since before, well, everything. Martin was always the one to pat your shoulder comfortingly or pull you into a hug when your vision blurs from tears. Apparently people felt so warm to him, as he had told Jon in a calm moment, after he had flinched the first time. Searing hot. Something to do with the relationships they have with others heats them, like embers in their bellies. It was a debilitating reminder that Martin had given up so much, and a curse bent on keeping those relationships at arm’s reach. Literally.

 _“You’re not too bad,”_ Martin had said, a ghost of a smile reminding him of the man he knew. _“T-that’s probably not good for you, all things considered. But we’ve both lost our connections, haven’t we?”_

_“Mmm. Everyone but you, I think.”_

_-_

Jon has been too afraid to leave Martin alone. They’ve gone on a few walks together but overall neither of them has left the house. Jon’s afraid to be around people, to hear the whisper of a statement and be unable to resist the pull to Ask, to Know, to Beg for the knowledge if that’s what it takes.

The time has come, though, the day Jon dreaded. They needed to go shopping.

Jon reminded Martin over and over that he didn’t need to come, that he could stay and rest or write poetry or just take a break. But Martin was determined, it seemed, to fight his battles as much as Jon was. Maybe it would be easier to resist with Martin alongside him, his anchor to humanity.

The grocery wasn’t too busy, all things considered, but compared to the ambient silence of the house and the car, the noise was deafening. Jon felt a bit like an AI unit, using his all-powerful powers to figure out where the tinned soups, bread, and tea were stocked.

God that tea. He hadn’t meant to upset Martin, it was just that he knew how vehemently Martin despised oolong. Jon had tried to make it for him a while back at Sasha’s behest; only to return, tail tucked, with a full mug of tea in newly shaky hands. Jon had thought it was because Martin had finally snapped, lost his cool on his new boss. But Martin had stuck his head in the door, mumbling something quick about oolong and his mum and how he hated it now and he was sorry. Jon had forgiven him. He knew what it was like to be caught off guard by something from your past, whatever it was. But now he was here, staring at the spot Martin had been, shivering as a low fog pooled at his feet briefly before dissipating into the air. His connection with the Lonely was wearing off, sure, but it clearly wasn’t completely severed.

Jon vacillated for a moment. _Should he stay here? Hope Martin reappears in the same spot he left?_ He knew that wasn’t how it worked. Martin had told him about the parallel world in which he could walk, this world but lonelier, softer, more distant. The safehouse would still exist in Martin’s world. It was probably the only place Martin could feel secure in. He couldn’t Know where Martin was going; even if he hadn’t promised he didn’t think it would work if he tried. Martin was avoiding being known and seen. He needed space, as much as Jon could give him, until he was ready to come back.

Jon paid for the groceries, grateful the teen at the till barely seemed to acknowledge his existence. _~~No statement to give~~ ; mother on her deathbed; ~~irrelevant, unhelpful child~~ ; girlfriend cheating with—Stop it. _

Fumbling with bags of bread, fruit, tea, rice, pasta, veg, soup, anything that seemed healthy and easy enough to make between the two of them, Jon loaded everything into the car, backseat precariously filled. He drove home (how quick it was, to admit the safehouse felt more like home than anywhere Jon had lived for a while) in silence somehow more deafening than the scratchy Georgia Ann Muldrow playing from the speakers and the bustle of the tiny Scottish village. It was slow-going, half-hoping he’d spot Martin on the drive and half-dreading the idea of getting home and him not being there, willing himself to put that off as long as possible.

Jon did arrive home eventually, however, to a pant leg and shoe slipping through the front door. _Martin._ He wasn’t sure if the recognition was the Eye or just Jon, but either entity was certain enough in their knowledge.

Making a point to put the car in park, Jon shouted for Martin, diving out of the car as soon as he could and rushed into the house. He couldn’t tell where man he carried such love for had gone; the Eye beckoned, teased him with Knowing. _Just this once. To help him._ He pushed the thoughts aside and began to systematically check the usual places. The space behind the front door, next to the couch, the bedroom. As Jon closed the door to the apparently empty bedroom he heard shuffling coming from the bathroom and the unfortunately familiar sound of Martin’s suppressed crying.

Jon approached the door with the coiled tension of one approaching an injured wild animal, pressing his ear to the door. “M-Martin? It’s-it’s Jon,” S _tupid, obviously._ “Are you alright? I mean-I assume not. But—hmm. what can I do?”

“Leave me alone, Jon.” Martin’s voice was muffled; Jon could practically picture him, elbows resting on the sink, face in his hands. “I-I can deal with this myself.”

“I know you can, of course you _can_ , Martin.” Jon ran a hand through his tangled curly hair, tugging on an errant curl as he spoke. “But-just, don’t shut me out. You don’t need to do this alone. You have people who—you have me. I care.” _Sigh._ “I-It’s the Lonely, Martin, it’s trying to trick you.”

“Its stupid. I-I don’t think I can say it to your face.”

“Then don’t. I can hear you. We can talk through the door. I certainly don’t have anywhere to go.”

Martin was quiet for a while. “It was that stupid tea, of all things.” His voice was slow, shaky; Jon could hear the effort he was taking to keep it controlled. “It made me realize how not me I was, _am_ , whatever.” Jon didn’t speak, didn’t want to break Martin’s focus. “I haven’t drunk tea since Peter. That sounds so-so stupid to be the thing to lose my cool over but it’s more than that. I lost so much of myself, Jon, while you were gone, after my mum, after Peter- _fucking_ -Lukas.”

_Oh shit._

“It’s not just that obviously, it’s the loneliness and the touch and the anxiety I feel all the time. I changed so much, Jon, and I didn’t even realize it was happening until it was too late and then I didn’t have a choice. I haven’t felt human in so long and I don’t know what to do with myself now.”

“Martin?”

“I’m cold all the _time_ , Jon, I used to be the warm one! I used to be the one Sasha and Tim and you would cuddle next to during movie nights in the Archives because it was freezing down there and now I can’t get warm.” Martin’s voice was escalating in tone and volume, a fever-pitch of anger and sorrow. “I just want to feel _normal_ again! _I don’t want to be lonely anymore, I want to be human!_ ”

“Martin!” Jon had stepped back from the door, watching a faint haze seep out from under the door, thick and white, rising in front of the door. “Martin, what’s happening in there?”

“Wh—Oh!” Jon hear the click and squeak of the door opening, and the fog billowed out tenfold. He could just make out a silhouette of Martin, seemingly more solid than any way he had seemed in a while. Jon stuck out his hand, thin and tight and scarred, and felt another hand, thick and large and _warm_ , grasp his. “Jon, w-what’s happening?”

“I-I’m not sure Martin, I can See, if you like.” He pressed his other hand to Martin’s face, treasuring how warm and soft he felt. “But I think-I think you healed yourself. Not wanting to be lonely, anymore, maybe?” Jon saw the warm, soft, exhausted smile on Martin’s face and was dimly pleased to feel it mimicked on his own.

 _I love you,_ he wanted to say. _I think I have always loved you and will always love you_. But there was time for that, Jon knew. There was time for sleepy love confessions and understanding exactly the right word to define how he felt for the man in front of him. Some things just need time.

_(They remembered the groceries about an hour later, when Martin mentioned making a cup of herbal tea.)_


End file.
